


Sweet resolution

by SrebrnaFH



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baking, Crack, Deductions, sweets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:47:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23145670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SrebrnaFH/pseuds/SrebrnaFH
Summary: Sherlock needs to find out what kind of hold Moriarty has on Moran, since the man seems to be unbribable by normal monetary means.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 24
Collections: Stories inspired by Johnlock Discord silliness





	Sweet resolution

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shiplocks_of_love](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplocks_of_love/gifts).



> So, on the johnlockficclub discord today...
> 
> shiplocks-of-love: I will kill for meringue. I accept hit jobs in exchange for meringue.  
> shiplocks-of-love: This could be a crack fic. Moriarty pays Moran in meringue. Sherlock finds out about this, gives Moran a stand mixer and a recipe and watches Moriarty's kingdom crumble down.  
> shiplocks-of-love: Honestly, the crap my brain conjures sometimes...
> 
> I wrote the last 2/3 immediately on discord and now just added the introduction ;)

They had been on the case for seventeen days in a row already and they were both beginning to feel the strain of it. John was visibly fed up with the whole thing, but that was John, never patient enough (and especially not when Moriarty was involved, as the man seemed to push all of John's buttons simultaneously). However, usually, even when John's temper turned to foul, Sherlock was able to remain cool and collected...

Not anymore. He was quite at the end of his tether, and the only thing keeping him upright and still at work were the wonderful coconut macaroons Mrs Hudson had dropped off when she checked on him ("I am stress-baking," she explained, as if the existence of sweets had ever needed any justification).

Sherlock slowly bit into one and allowed it to dissolve in his mouth, followed by a sip of tea.

Macaroons. Ma-ca-roons.

Meringue and coconut.

Meringue... Why was meringue important?

He leaned back, closing his eyes, ordering the clues and traces in his mind. The whiff of... of... whipped cream? And some traces of lemon filling... Custard?

Ah. Obvious. So obvious.

Sherlock smiled slightly, turning Moriarty's right hand around in his mind, forcing them face to face for the reveal of the final answer.

 _"Will kill for meringue,"_ said the metaphorical cardboard sign around Moran's neck.

Sherlock sighed, pushing the newly-deducted solution away from his tired Mind Palace eyes.

There was only one thing to do now. A quick review of Mycroft's favourite bakeries brought him a short-term solution - his brother's card would pay for the delivery of several pounds of lemon meringue pie to the last known location of Moran's lair - but it wasn't sustainable, especially if the man decided to move away for safety reasons. He needed something more, something permanent, some way to get the sharpshooter away from Moriarty's control (and the question where exactly the consulting criminal managed to purchase the needed amounts of sweet treats was the secondary puzzle he would still need to resolve).

He needed...

Sherlock's eyes blinked open and he pulled out Mycroft's card from where he had stashed it bare hours before.

####

Three hours later, Moran's mobile pinged with a notification of a newly-purchased Skillshare class on baking. He frowned, but hey, weirder things have happened.

Ten minutes after that, a delivery man knocked on his door and left an unassuming cube of a package, marked with the logo of BOSCH brand.

Looking around, the sniper did not find anything suspicious about it - apart from the thick tome of a cookbook taped to the top of the box - so he brought it in.

####

In two days, Moriarty's empire toppled softly, slowly, like a fudge cream frosting sliding off an overloaded cake, while Moran indulged in his sweet addiction in the blissful isolation of his tiny London flat, planning never to touch a rifle again.

Or at least not until he ran out of sugar.


End file.
